“Those men I asked you to arrest--?”
“Nabbed”--puff--“every one of 'em!”--puff--puff--“all under”--puff--puff--“lock and key,--best smoke I ever tasted--where d'you get 'em?”
“Had they been in communication with her?”
Puff--puff--“You bet they had! Where d'you get these things?”
“Not her special men by any chance?”
Puff--“Gad, what smoke!--couldn't say, of course, but”--puff--puff--“shouldn't think so.”
“Well--I'll go along with you if you like, and look them over.”
Both tone and manner gave Saunders credit for the suggestion, and Saunders seemed to like it. There is nothing like following up, in football, war or courtship.
“I see you're a judge of a cigar,” said King, and Saunders purred, all men being fools to some extent, and the only trouble being to demonstrate the fact.
They had started for the station entrance when a nasal voice began intoning, “Cap-teen King sahib--Cap-teen King sahib!” and a telegraph messenger passed them with his book under his arm. King whistled him. A moment later he was tearing open an official urgent telegram and writing a string of figures in pencil across the top. Then he decoded swiftly,